


a blessing and a curse

by Kaesa



Series: Kaesa's Whumptober 2019 fics [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gore, M/M, Major Character Injury, Noncon First Aid, Post-Canon, Rated For Violence, Whump, Whumptober 2019, bastard aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 01:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21110708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesa/pseuds/Kaesa
Summary: On the battlefield, during the next war, Aziraphale finds Crowley facedown in the mud.





	a blessing and a curse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2019, for the prompt "shaky hands."

Everything was mud and blood and noise as Aziraphale knelt to examine the body.

The body, such as it was, was facedown and not moving. One of its dark wings was bent under itself at an angle that hurt to look at.

Some small, insane part of him thought, _Oh, I don't know how I'm _ever _going to get the mud out of these clothes._ The rest of him was not much better, though, jumping at every noise too near his head and full of directionless, incomplete thoughts like _How am I going to _and _but this can't _and _Why?_

Aziraphale reached out a shaking hand to stroke the hair; it should have been red, but it was streaked with mud now. "Crowley?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

The noise of the battlefield should have meant that even Aziraphale couldn't hear himself, but the body stirred, the head lifted, one weary yellow eye opened, and Aziraphale dared to have hope.

"Azir -- Aziraph --" Crowley gave up trying to say his name, coughing hard and horribly.

"I'm here," said Aziraphale, putting what he hoped was a comforting hand upon Crowley's cheek.

"Nh. Shouldn't be," Crowley choked out.

"I think your wing is broken," Aziraphale told him, and now he was good, now he was _fine,_ everything was fine because Aziraphale would make it fine, and Crowley would be up and about and just like new in no time.

"Angel. Don't," said Crowley, muzzily.

"No, no, it'll be fine, it looks like a clean break," said Aziraphale, although he was more putting reassuring words together for Crowley's sake than assessing the break knowledgeably. He wished he could just miracle it away, but he knew even a little blessing like that would hurt Crowley. "Here, I'm going to try and splint it, brace yourself," he said, and Crowley made a tortured sound as he carefully guided the wing into a more natural closed position so he could bandage it up, and then, perhaps they could get real help somewhere.

He tried not to think about the problem of finding someone to treat a wounded demon's wing as he wrapped it up. _Everything was going to be fine._ Crowley whimpered, and occasionally tried to tell him to go, to leave, to give up.

"There you go," said Aziraphale, forcing cheer into his voice. "Is anything else broken?"

"Mngh," said Crowley. "Me."

"Well, we can't have that," said Aziraphale. "Where else does it hurt?"

"_Angel, pleasse,_" said Crowley. "I don't -- I can't --"

"Where else?" said Aziraphale, becoming impatient.

"It'sss fine, pleassse jussst, I can. I can take it from here." Every word was pained, and Aziraphale didn't know who Crowley thought he was fooling.

"Why don't I just help you up --"

"No, no, I can -- I can --" Crowley struggled briefly to his knees and rolled over onto his side. "Sssee? 'M fine. Jusst, jussst need a resssst."

He was holding his arm at an odd angle. "My _dear,_ you and I both know you don't hiss quite that much unless you can't help, it, and --"

"_Pleassse,_ Aziraphale," he said, raggedly.

Aziraphale took his arm gently, and he didn't fight. Maybe he didn't have the strength left. But before Aziraphale could examine the arm for breaks, Crowley's guts spilled out onto the mud.

"Ah," said Aziraphale, staring at the jumble of strange red stuff. It was funny how so much of life on earth could be reduced to just -- goopy pipes held in with strings of meat, so easily cut through by flying shrapnel or punctured by stray bullets. "Well. I." He struggled to think of something to say.

"Pleassse, jussst, leave me here," said Crowley again. "I don't -- I'm sssure --" He gritted his teeth. "Sssomeone -- sssomeone will come along and put me back together _and you can't be here when they do._"

Because Hell wanted Crowley alive, to torture. Of course.

"No," said Aziraphale.

"Angel, _pleasse,_" Crowley said again, sounding so, so broken. Aziraphale was going to _make everything better _even if it killed the both of them. He scooped the mass of whatever-it-was back into Crowley, who howled in pain, and laid him on his back. "Ssstop, ssstop, no, angel, _pleasse,_" sobbed Crowley. "You can't, you can't fixss thisss, it'd take, oh pleassse ssstop, you can't blessss me, ssstop, sssstop!"

He put two shaking hands on him, and swallowed. "I'm so sorry, my dear. This is going to hurt quite a lot." And holy light poured over the both of them.


End file.
